


Ars Erotico

by Savageseraph



Series: Ars Erotico [1]
Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Art, Drawing, Exhibitionism, F/M, Lust, M/M, Modeling, Oral Sex, Self-Doubt, Slow Build, Touching, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/pseuds/Savageseraph
Summary: Benedict takes more care with his invitations to the Granville house than he does with any of the other social engagements forced upon him by his family.  On those evenings, Benedict slips society’s jesses and follows his own inclinations and desires.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville
Series: Ars Erotico [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188986
Comments: 18
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

Benedict knows something is amiss from the moment Henry Granville closes the door behind him. The house is too dark. Too quiet. He misses the swirl of laughter, the buzz of conversation, the scent of tobacco and absinthe in the air. There are no breathless moans or rustles of fabric from activities much more intimate than conversation. Benedict prays he doesn’t look as crestfallen as he feels at having an evening of art and ardor snatched away.

“My apologies, Granville. I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought you were hosting this evening.” Actually, Benedict is sure of it. He takes more care with his invitations to the Granville house than he does with any of the other social engagements forced upon him by his family. Those events wear on him. The polite pretense and performance they require transform every ballroom into a grueling gauntlet he needs to endure. Each evening spent with the ton leaves him feeling restless and exhausted, the opposite of the pleasure and raw possibility he feels after what he has come to think of as his artist’s nights out. On those evenings, Benedict slips society’s jesses and follows his own inclinations and desires.

Granville brushes away his words with a wave of his hand. “No apologies are necessary, Bridgerton. You had the right evening.” He begins walking down the hall toward the studio, and Benedict follows. “Unfortunately, the recently widowed Lady Millbrooke emerged from her obligatory mourning last week and decided to host a fete to celebrate her husband’s passing and her newfound freedom.”

Like the rest of the house, the studio seems almost peaceful. There is no frisson of creative energy, no sparks of arousal as artists lean toward each other and indulge in a brush of lips against lips, necks, throats, before turning their attention back to their work. Despite that, there is a heaviness to the atmosphere, a sense of expectation, Benedict is having trouble trying to parse.

“I’m afraid my humble gathering couldn’t complete with such delicious intrigue, and I found myself awash in the regrets of my usual guests.” Granville sighs as he pours them each a glass of red wine. “Even my dear wife has abandoned me for the evening.”

“The good widow’s party wasn’t to your taste?” While Granville sees to the drinks, Benedict takes the opportunity to page through the papers pinned to Granville’s easel. There are sketches of the oil lamps, the clock on the mantel, a scattering of roses on a divan the models sometimes use for their sessions. A drawing of one of the pillows captures the brocade in such detail Benedict swears he can feel the texture of it with his eyes.

There is an intimacy to this. To seeing work that was never intended to be shown or displayed to the public. It reveals far more than the majestic paintings that grace the walls of the aristocracy. If he had called Granville’s public work cold and lifeless, this is different. It is not a grand performance. It is tightly focused passion that elevates the ordinary to the extraordinary, and Benedict finds himself utterly enchanted by it.

“Oh, I considered it, but in the end, I suppose I wasn’t curious enough about the lady’s predilections to attend. I suppose my Lucy will let me know—at length--if I made an error in judgement.” 

“Or Lady Whistledown will.”

“Her too. What would we do without that lady’s formidable talent for knowing entirely too much about other people’s private affairs?” Granville stops at Benedict’s side and offers him a glass of wine as he glances over his sketches. “Before you judge me too harshly, I feel obliged to mention that, in a pinch, one must make due with whatever subjects are at hand.”

“What are you talking about? The texture of this pillow is extraordinary, and I’m jealous of how you’ve captured the play of shadow and light as deftly as you managed here.” Benedict lets his fingers hover over the sketch of the lamp. “It’s really quite magnificent.” 

“You are too kind.” Although Granville has his face turned partly away, Benedict sees the smile that curves his lips and brightens his eyes.

Benedict laughs. “If you will recall the manner of our meeting you know I have a bad habit of sharing my thoughts on art too freely.”

“I suppose I do.” Granville chuckles. “But I do not believe you would have if you knew the artist was in earshot.”

It is a fair point. Benedict nods. “True. But I hope you know that I respect you too much to shower you with false flattery.”

Granville’s hand feels warm and heavy as he rests it on Benedict’s shoulder and squeezes. “I thank you for your candor.” He sits back at his easel, nods to the one next to him. “Would you care to join me?”

“Of course.” Benedict answers without hesitation and slides onto the other stool. He scans the room, looking for an object to catch his eye while avoiding the ones Granville has already drawn. His gaze finally settles on a jacket--likely Granville’s--draped over the arm of the divan. Benedict stares at it, noting the soft nap of the velvet, the shadows filling the folds of the fabric, the soft gleam of the buttons. After cataloging those things he most wants to capture, Benedict settles in to sketch. The comfortable quiet in the room envelopes him as he draws, and the wine, which never seems to run dry, fills him with a warm, languid glow.

“Bridgerton?” 

Benedict blinks and scrubs a hand over his eyes to pull himself out of his work before he glances over at Granville. He isn’t entirely certain how long he has been lost inside his drawing, but it is long enough for his body to protest slightly when he does move. “I’m sorry. I’m being a terrible company.”

“I would never ask for an apology from anyone indulging their passion.” A mischievous smile curves Granville’s lips. “And you clearly were.”

A flush warms Benedict’s cheeks, and he takes a sip of the crisp, autumnal wine. Has Granville been watching him while he sketched? The other man’s easel is slightly behind his, so he is able to see Benedict while Benedict has to turn to see him. _Oh, fucking hell._ If his siblings are to be believed, he looks like a proper idiot when he is focused on his sketchbook to the exclusion of all else. And he does not want Granville thinking him a fool.

Granville cuts him off as he fumbles for another apology. “I wonder if I might I impose upon you for something, Bridgerton.”

“I’m the guest in your home enjoying your hospitality. I’m not sure I’m in a position to deny you anything.” As soon as the words leave his lips, Benedict wants to snatch them back. They feel… _dangerous_ , though he can’t say why.

“Is that so?” Granville tilts his head to the side and lets his gaze move freely over Benedict. It doesn’t linger overly long in inappropriate places, but it is more intense than Benedict is accustomed to receiving. “Then perhaps you’d consider allowing me to draw you.”

Benedict blinks. “Me?” He knows Anthony’s stormy intensity and Colin’s exuberance seem to effortlessly catch the eye of the ladies of the ton, but he also knows, thanks to Eloise, he is considered the odd but pleasant Bridgerton brother. The brother who doesn’t have the problem of having to constantly dodge every Mama with an unwed daughter. Benedict _is_ grateful for that. However, he finds the idea that anyone would want to draw him astonishing to the extreme. It also kindles an ember of pleasure inside him. He laughs softly, touches his chest. “You want to draw me?”

“Unless there’s some other Bridgerton whose presence I overlooked.” Granville makes a sweeping gesture to take in the entirety of the room.

Benedict pours himself more wine and takes several slow swallows as he considers Granville’s request. He has sat for family portraits at Grosvenor Square, but he is certain this isn’t going to require him to be poised and proper. Not if the other subjects Granville provided are any indication of what catches his eye. And therein lies the problem. Granville’s models are striking, beautiful, and Benedict is painfully aware he doesn’t compare favorably to any of them. “I’m afraid I’m not up to the quality of your usual subjects.”

Granville tsks. “We shall have to disagree on that point.”

The wine has to be responsible for the sudden warmth that washes through Benedict. Obviously, the wine. “Now you are the one being too kind.” 

“No, I am being candid.” Granville grins. “And offering my professional artistic opinion.”

“When you put it that way, how could I possibly refuse?” Buoyed by the compliments and the wine, Benedict strolls over to one of the pillars the models pose with. It feels strange, stepping into the space on the other side of the canvas. It makes him feel exposed, and so he cobbles together what armor he can as he leans against it, rests a hand on his hip, and grins rakishly. “You mean like this?”

Granville laughs and shakes his head. “No, not like that. You’ve seen how my models pose.”

“Oh.” _Ooooooh._ Benedict has already shed his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat. While his current state of undress might be inappropriate, it does not tip over into the full-blown scandal he’d be courting if he lost his shirt and trousers too. Benedict plucks nervously at his shirt. “You mean…?”

“Not to worry, Bridgerton.” Granville takes a deep breath, releases it. “I fear I’ve overstepped and beg your pardon.”

“I did not say no.” The words and the speed of his response shock Benedict to the core. Of course, he will say no. It is the only proper, the only _possible_ , response to such an outrageous request. A gentleman wouldn’t ever allow himself to be so compromised. He frowns. Anthony makes a habit of being naked enough to cause a scandal by fucking his soprano in various semi-public places, and he’s a viscount, a burden Benedict is grateful he doesn’t have to bear. But he isn’t naïve enough to believe that this is the same as his brother’s indiscretions. Granville isn’t without rank, and he most definitely is not a woman.

Granville cocks his head to the side, flashes Benedict a conspiratorial grin. “Does that mean you’re saying yes?” 

The subtle challenge in Granville’s words send a thrill through Benedict. The fact he is still considering the request at all both surprises and excites him. He knows what he _should_ do, what Anthony would tell him that he is obligated to do, but he also knows what he _wants_ to do. He refills his wine glass and drains it in several swallows. “What must I do?”

“ _We_ must prepare.” Granville gestures toward a chair where the models often leave their robes as he turns back to his easel. 

Benedict leans on the chair for balance as he pulls off his boots, and he finds his courage—liquid and otherwise—failing. This isn’t prudent. It isn’t wise. There is still time to cry off while he still has most of his clothing and dignity intact. He steals a glance at Granville to see if the other man is watching him disrobe, but Granville is busy shuffling pages and sharpening charcoals and arranging new paper on his easel. 

Because Granville isn’t watching, isn’t assessing each bit of skin as it is reveled, Benedict summons the will to finish stripping. Discomfort and anticipation swirl through him in equal measure, each feeding and strengthening the other. A shiver runs through him, and it is not from the temperature in the pleasantly warm room. Benedict shakes his head. He is being a fool. Granville isn’t going to be looking at him as a man would look on a woman he desires. Benedict will be a form to be captured on paper. Nothing more. He walks back to the pillar and swallows hard before resting an elbow on it. He can’t quite bring himself to look directly at Granville. “Is this alright?”

Granville hums. “Shift your weight a little to your right leg. Move your left foot forward a bit. A little more. That’s it.” There’s a sight pause. “Tilt your chin down and a bit to the left.” Another pause as Benedict adjusts his position. “Perfect. Hold that for me, Bridgerton.” 

The directions are delivered politely, just as if Benedict is sitting for a portrait in his family’s drawing room. They ease his nerves. All he needs to do is keep reminding of that. Except he is not at home. And he is not wearing any clothes. He has nothing to hide behind. Nothing at all.

The silence that descends this time is anything but comfortable. Benedict’s fixes his gaze on the floor, listens to the soft scratch of charcoal against paper. The occasional draft shivers against his skin. He desperately wants the courage to lift his gaze and watch Granville work. Because if he can do that, study the way the light gleams in Granville’s hair, the way he wets his lips while he’s studying his sketch, the way his fingers rub at his jaw while he’s concentrating, he can slip back into familiar territory where he is the one watching, not the one on blatant display.

“ _Bridgerton._ ”

Benedict starts, looks up. “I beg your pardon. Did I move?”

“No, it’s fine. I was wondering if you might…” He gestures behind Benedict to the divan. “I’d like to try a different pose.”

Heat rises to his cheeks at Granville’s suggestion. He finds the poses the models hold on the divan delightfully sensual, and thinking of himself displayed in that manner makes part of him want dash for his clothes, pull them on, and flee. However, a stronger part drives him forward. He picks up the roses scattered on the divan, sits awkwardly, then reclines on his side. He tries to mimic the position of the languid ladies in the art on Granville’s walls, which he suspects makes him look ridiculous. However, ridiculous is more comfortable than vulnerable. “Like this?” he says just before raising one of the roses to his mouth and gripping the stem between his teeth.

Granville snorts. “We can start with that.” This time, Benedict’s gaze focuses on Granville’s chest. He relaxes as he watches the other man’s arm move as he works, watches each time he reaches for his wine glass and each time he puts it back. Because Benedict is watching, he sees the moment when Granville puts the charcoal down and moves from behind the easel. He looks up as Granville crosses the room and stops next to him.

“Do you mind if I make some adjustments?”

Benedict isn’t sure why the request causes the air around him to prickle against his skin. This isn’t something he hasn’t seen before. Granville works with the models in order to show them in the best light, so he shakes his head. For some reason, he doesn’t quite trust his voice to be steady enough to answer aloud.

The first thing to go is the rose. It’s tossed to the floor with the others that Benedict let slip from his grasp when he sat down. Granville has him sit up and slips a pillow behind the small of his back before encouraging him to lie down on his back and let his head rest against the arm of the divan. 

“Relax. You are doing very well.” The words are accompanied by the soft brush of fingers against his shoulder, and Benedict releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Let your right leg dangle off the edge so your foot rests on the floor. That’s it.” There’s a pause, before Granville takes Benedict’s right hand and positions it so his palm is resting against his chest.” 

“Hold that for me, Bridgerton.” Granville moves away and takes his place behind the easel.

Benedict hears paper being replaced and the sound of sketching, and as he listens, he comes to realize several things. This position leaves his neck arched, his gaze turned toward the ceiling. Before he chose not to watch Granville; now he’d have to break his pose to be able to catch a glimpse of the artist. He can’t watch; he can only be watched. The soft nap of Granville’s jacket rubs against his cheek, and when he smells amber and sandalwood rising from it, part of him wants to nuzzle into those warm, golden scents. The pillow behind him gives an arch to his back, and the tips of the fingers resting on his chest brush against his nipple. 

He’s also aware—painfully aware--of the warm weight of his cock resting against his thigh and how he’s positioned so his hips are slightly tilted toward Granville. With that realization, he swears he can feel Granville’s gaze tickling across that sensitive skin in featherlight touches, and his cock starts to stir in response. His arm tenses with the effort to stay still and not move his hand to cover himself. His fingers twitch, rub against his nipple, and his back arches even more as he gasps.

As Benedict blushes, he feels that warm flush move down his neck and chest as his cock continues to harden. He tells himself he shouldn’t feel awkward. Often times the men who posed for them found themselves in a similar state. They never seemed to be bothered by it, and Benedict knows none of the artists he worked next to had ever objected. And neither had he. In fact, when he is behind the easel, he prefers it when the men are aroused. It’s not something he has given much thought to aside from his finding it more pleasing to the eye. Just as, more often than not, he finds himself hard from watching them.

_Oh god._

Tension tightens Benedict’s body as he imagines how he must look. His pose is decidedly more provocative, more blatantly erotic, than anything he has seen from the models. And Granville wanted him displayed like this, wanted to draw him like this. He shivers, bites down on his lip. Is it making Granville hard? Is _he_ making Granville hard? He hopes Granville is straining against the confines of his trousers and cursing the coarse fabric scraping against his skin. Wanting that is wrong. Benedict knows he should feel ashamed, but it would be more humiliating if Granville was unmoved while he was trembling with need.

Benedict closes his eyes tight. His nails scrape against his hip as he curls his hand into a fist to keep himself from reaching for his cock. He wants to touch himself. _Badly._ He shifts one finger of the other hand to rub at his nipple and moans softly as it tightens at his touch. It would be nicer to have Granville catching it between his teeth and pinching before soothing the ache with his tongue. Before Benedict realizes it, his hand slides down his body, stopping only when his fingers graze his navel, and his cock twitches.

_What the hell is he doing?_ Benedict’s thoughts are awhirl. He is more painfully aroused than he imagined possible without having been touched. It feels like months instead of hours since his last release, and he desperately wants to fuck until he’s spent and sated.

“Bridgerton.” Granville’s voice is tight, rough with lust. It sounds much closer than Benedict knows the easel to be. Close enough Benedict is certain Granville can see him trembling with need. “ _Benedict._ ” A pause. “Can I touch you?”

Benedict is so far past what is proper there is only one possible response. “Yes,” he whispers. _Oh, god, yes._ Granville’s hand rests lightly on his knee. _Not like that. No, not like that._ Those agile fingers stroke, knead, then move to caress the inside of his knee. The light, tickling touch makes his toes curl before it traces lazy arcs and swirls on the inside of his thighs.

Benedict moans deeply. _Wantonly._ He rubs his cheek against the dark velvet of Granville’s jacket, savoring the scent-- _Henry’s_ scent--and spreads his thighs wider. This is wrong. It’s wrong, and it’s wicked. It is perverse, and Benedict can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is Granville’s maddeningly light touch as it inches closer and closer and closer to his cock.

“I wonder if you realize just how beautiful you are.” Granville’s words caress him, and Benedict whimpers, raises his hips in invitation. When Granville laughs, the sound is dark and velvety. His fingers move higher and cup Benedict’s balls, rubbing them gently with his thumb while his fingers tease the sensitive skin behind them. The touch startles a breathy cry from Benedict as he thrusts several times hard into the air. “My god. You are temptation embodied, Bridgerton. Do you know that?” 

_Please. Henry, please._ Benedict wants more, wants those graceful fingers curled firmly around his cock. He wants to fuck up into them and spend on Granville’s chest. 

When Granville’s fingers finally reach his cock, they brush teasingly along the length of his shaft before curling loosely around it and stroking gently from base to tip. It’s not enough. _Not nearly enough._ Benedict tries thrusting into that light touch, frustrated the tightness and friction he craves are out of reach. If he takes himself in hand, he is certain he could bring himself off with a few rough strokes, and he is tempted to do just that. _So tempted._ Would Granville stop him if he tried? 

Granville’s grip tightens as his thumb traces lazy circles over the head of Benedict’s cock. “Oh god. _Henry_.” The words spill out before he can stop them.

“Open your eyes, Benedict. Look at me.” Benedict blinks his eyes open to look at Granville, who slowly and provocatively licks his lips. “I want to taste you.”

_Fucking hell._ Benedict loves few things more than a warm, eager mouth around his cock. It isn’t something he has ever refused, and he won’t refuse it tonight. He nods. “Then taste me.”

“Sit up.”

Benedict pushes himself upright, and Granville slips his hands between Benedict’s knees and spreads his legs so he can move between them. He drapes one of Benedict’s legs over his shoulder and moves closer, trailing kisses up the inside of Benedict’s thigh to the base of his cock. _Yes. Yes, there._ Granville rubs his cheek against the shaft, then licks along its length, over the tip, then back down. When the teasing grows to be too much and Benedict tries to thrust, Granville grips his hips tightly to hold him still.

“Patience, Bridgerton, is a virtue. Haven’t you been taught that?”

If Benedict goes by what he was taught, he would never find himself aching to be debauched by another man. Granville nuzzles his balls, and Benedict’s whole body jerks as Granville takes them into his mouth tonguing them and humming around them. No lady of Benedict’s acquaintance has ever done that to him, and he feels the vibrations down to his bones. His hips jerk helplessly in Granville’s grip as Henry sucks and hums around him. It’s maddening and delicious, and Granville doesn’t pull back until Benedict is shaking and sweated.

“Eyes on me, Bridgerton.”

Granville waits until Benedict is looking at him and keeps their gazes locked as he curls his fingers around the base of Benedict’s cock, holds it steady, and brushes his lips across the head. He licks at it and teases along the slit until Benedict murmurs a soft, “Please….” It’s then, and only then, that Granville parts his lips and takes Benedict into his mouth. He sucks gently at the head of Benedict’s cock, tonguing it before taking it deeper, and Benedict watches, transfixed, as more of it disappears into Granville’s mouth. 

It feels good. _So good._ Benedict exhales a shivery sigh as Granville takes him deeper still, and he just has time to register the spark of mischief in Granville’s eyes before Henry takes him in, not stopping until his lips brush Benedict’s belly. Then he swallows, and the delicious clenching heat nearly makes Benedict come. As Granville pulls back, amusement glimmers in his eyes. He swirls his tongue around Benedicts cock, sucking and teasing before he takes him back in deeply, and Benedict knows that this delicious, excruciating torment isn’t going to push him over the edge. It’s going to keep him trembling there.

“I want to fuck your mouth.” Benedict has never asked that of a lady, but then he has been content to take what they’ve offered and delight in it. Now, he finds that he wants to do the taking.

Granville groans, and the sound makes Benedict’s body go rigid. His hands curl into tight fists as he fights the urge to come. Granville must realize Benedict is close because he stills and waits, watching Benedict with smug satisfaction in his eyes even though his lips are stretched wide around his cock. As he wins back control, Benedict realizes he likes that look on Henry. 

His fingers shake only a little as he touches Granville’s lips and murmurs, “Patience.” He reaches for Granville’s hair, then pauses. “I…” He wets his lips. “Undo your trousers, and take out your cock.”

Granville’s eyes widen, then close as a shudder rolls through him. He fumbles to undo his falls, and once he has opened them, Benedict can see his cock is hard. 

_Thank god._

“Take yourself in hand.” Benedict swears he sees Granville’s eyes darkening as his nostrils flare and his breathing grows more ragged. He gives a slight nod of his head, curls his fingers around his cock. “Good. Now, stroke yourself. And go slowly. After all, patience is a virtue.” He laughs softly at the flare of annoyance in Granville’s eyes. “And don’t stop.”

Benedict’s fingers tangle in Granville’s hair, and he pushes deeper into his mouth. His thrusts are slow, shallow, hesitant, but each has him sliding that much deeper. When he reaches the back of Granville’s throat, Henry swallows, and Benedict gasps as he buries himself balls-deep in Granville’s mouth. It feels so good, so sweet, so fucking tight. As Granville swallows and moans, Benedict pulls back and then presses back in smoothly and deeply. It’s intoxicating to watch Granville take him over and over and over again. To watch that clever, discerning gaze go unfocused as Granville thrusts hard into his fist. 

In fact, Benedict is so lost in Granville’s talented mouth that he barely notices the light, tickling touch between his legs as Granville’s finger traces circles around his opening. When the teasing turns to soft pressure, Benedict does notice. No lady has ever touched him there, and while it is unfamiliar and a bit strange, it’s not unpleasant. If anything, it makes him fuck Granville more urgently. When that fingertip breaches him, Benedict’s whole body jerks. He pulls Granville’s head down to meet his last thrusts before he spills in Granville’s mouth.

Waves of pleasure ripple through Benedict as Granville swallows around him. He slumps back against the divan and tries to regain his composure, which is damned difficult to do while Granville keeps gently sucking his cock, and the tip of that one finger fucks shallowly into him. When he finally tightens around it, Granville slips it free, and Benedict isn’t certain if he feels regret or relief at the loss. 

Granville finally releases Benedict’s cock after kissing the head. He kneels up, curls a hand behind Benedict’s neck, and pulls him down for a kiss. Benedict has always enjoys tasting himself on the women who’d done this to him, but Granville’s kiss stirs something more feral, something dark and possessive, as he tastes himself on Henry. He licks into Granville’s mouth to get more of it and growls softly when Granville pulls back. But then Henry’s sticky fingers are rubbing at his lips.

“Open, Benedict.” 

Benedict moans. His eyes close as Granville slips two fingers into his mouth, and he sucks without being told to, learns Granville’s taste. He pulls back to lick the rest of Granville’s hand clean before taking those fingers back into his mouth. His spent cock twitches impotently against his thigh. He wants more, but he knows he cannot ask for it. Instead, he lets himself sink into the quiet pleasure to be found in sucking and Granville stroking his hair and nuzzling his neck. Benedict savors it, every last touch, every last kiss, for as long as he can.

He knows it isn’t proper. It’s wrong, and it’s wicked. It’s perverse, and he supposes that makes him perverse. But he doesn’t want to think about that. Not now. Now, he just wants to feel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict shouldn’t have let his assignation happen, shouldn’t be letting it creep into his thoughts at inopportune times. He definitely shouldn’t be lingering on it when he pleasures himself. But it has happened, and he doesn’t have the will or inclination to banish it from his mind.

Days pass before the next gathering at Granville’s, and Benedict spends them trying not to think about his last night in the studio. Sometimes, when he is riding with Anthony or trading barbs with Eloise or losing himself in Genevieve’s heat, he even succeeds. But at night, when he’s alone in his room, when he takes himself in hand, his thoughts fix on the feeling of Granville’s mouth around his balls, the clenching tightness of Granville’s throat, the maddening tease of that one finger barely fucking into him.

Benedict shouldn’t have let it happen, shouldn’t be letting it creep into his thoughts at inopportune times. He definitely shouldn’t be lingering on it when he pleasures himself. But it has happened, and he doesn’t have the will or inclination to banish it from his mind. Not when it feels so fucking good.

####

When he finally finds himself back at the Granville house, Benedict feels disappointed when a servant answers the door, lets him in, and takes his coat. There is already a crowd gathered, and Benedict grabs a glass of wine as he winds his way through the rooms and hallways. He tells himself he’s only making the rounds, not seeking out his host—definitely not that--but denial becomes impossible as his mood sours when each new space doesn’t reveal the presence of either Granville. He finishes his wine and replaces it with another as he wanders out of the house, through the enclosed courtyard, and into the studio.

As expected, the studio hums with conversation and creativity, and Benedict greets some of the other artists he has become acquainted with. Granville isn’t here either, so Benedict uncovers his easel and sits. Tonight, the divan is draped in a length of gold brocade, which complements the creamy skin and thick fall of golden curls of the model reclining on it. She has a pretty pout, and her sea-green eyes sparkle with amusement. The pillow in front of her stomach and thighs makes what she is hiding a constant tease and gives Benedict cause to curse the sudden tightness of his trousers. When the model catches him looking her over, she gives him a saucy wink, and he smiles in response. He raises his glass to her, takes a swallow, then puts it down and picks up a piece of charcoal to work. 

While he draws, Benedict finds himself utterly bewitched by the model’s lips, parted as if she’s frozen in that moment just before being kissed. The light gleams off her magnificent hair, and Benedict wonders if she can feel his heavy gaze moving over her lush curves and rosy nipples. He wonders if she knows that he’d love to tug that pillow away and bury his face between her thighs. A blush warms his cheeks just as arms wrap around his waist, and Benedict jerks, barely preventing an unforgiveable slash of black across his drawing.

“Did I frighten you?”

_Genevieve._ Benedict relaxes, puts down his charcoal, and leans back into the modiste’s embrace. “Halfway to my grave.”

Her laughter tickles against his neck. “Well, at least it was only halfway. It would be tragic had you made it all the way there.” One delicate hand slides lower to cover him, and she hums softly when she feels his arousal. “Tragic indeed. Come with me.” 

“ _Genevieve._ ” Benedict swallows as she nuzzles at the side of his neck. “I’m…” His body tightens when her palm presses more firmly against him. “I’m working.” Even to his own ears, that protest sounds weak.

“Tsk. I believe you meant to say, ‘I need you.’ Isn’t that right?” Her lips brush his ear when she murmurs “need.” He groans and is rewarded with light, teasing flicks of her tongue. She kisses in front of his ear, then says, “I want your mouth on me.”

Benedict gasps at the sudden spike of desire her words conjure in him. He stands abruptly and tosses a sheet over his easel as he lets her pull him out of the studio and through the house to a quiet hallway off one of the main rooms. There are people in that room, and he knows he and Genevieve aren’t so cloaked by shadows that they can’t be seen. However, Anthony never let that stop him, and Benedict now knows why. The need pulsing through him is stronger than any feeble objection decorum can voice.

Because his back is to the room, Benedict doesn’t know if anyone watches him drop to his knees, watches Genevieve pull up her skirts and let them fall over him, watches as she drapes a thigh over his shoulder. He closes his eyes, nuzzling and nibbling at her thighs, at her stomach. When she makes little snarls at his teasing, Benedict grins. If he wasn’t buried in yards of taffeta, Genevieve would have grabbed him by the hair and tugged him where she wanted, but tonight, he gets to make her squirm and plead for what she wants. He has no doubt she will make him pay for that some other night. 

It isn’t until Benedict hears his name, soft and breathy, on her lips that he nuzzles her damp curls, then spreads her so he can lick into her. He can feel her body tense and her back arch. Her palms run over his head. Since she is an insistent and demanding lover, Benedict takes his time licking and sucking, nibbling and teasing. He closes his eyes as he feels Genevieve’s fingers clawing at the fabric over his head. Her hips rock against him impatiently. When he slides two fingers into her, she gasps as her body tightens and tightens and tightens around them. His cock aches, and he wants to feel her heat clenching around it. He teases her to the edge and over twice more before he slips out from under her skirts.

“You are a wicked, wicked man.” Sweaty curls cling to her flushed cheeks most becomingly. 

Benedict tugs her against his body, claims her mouth in deep, possessive kiss. As their tongues rub and lick, he takes her hand, draws it back to his trousers, and rubs against her palm. They’re both breathing hard by the time he rests his forehead against hers. “I am a very, very hard man.”

Genevieve laughs, low and dark, as her fingers stroke him through his clothes. “And what should I do about that?”

“Let me under your skirts.” One of her brows arches at the edge of command in his tone. Benedict swallows and manages a softer, “ _Please._ ”

“How could I refuse such a polite request, hmmm?” Genevieve brushes her lips against his, then murmurs, “After all, it isn’t just your mouth I adore.”

Heedless of the mess he is making of her hair, Benedict tangles his fingers in her dark curls, tugging her closer for a kiss before moving behind her. He pulls up her skirts, bunching the fabric at the small of her back, and takes a moment to enjoy her backside and lacey stockings, both of which appeal to him aesthetically and carnally, before he undoes his trousers and frees his cock.

Almost as if she can sense his thoughts, Genevieve chuckles. “Are you going to draw me or fuck me?”

“Sadly,” Benedict says, patting her shapely arse, “we’ve only time for fucking.”

“Ah.” She exhales a heavy sigh. “I suppose I shall manage to contain my disappointment." 

“I don’t plan on leaving you disappointed, darling.” Benedict wraps an arm around her waist and leans forward, forcing her to do the same. “In fact, I wager you will find yourself quite satisfied by my efforts.” He slips a foot between hers to nudges them and her legs apart. 

“Well, then, I—”

The rest of her words are cut off as he thrusts deeply into her. And, oh, she feels like sin itself. _Sweet and warm and tight._ His cock jerks, and his arm tightens around her waist as he struggles for control like some green boy. Maybe Genevieve senses how close he is as he trembles against her because she doesn’t encourage, doesn’t move, doesn’t tighten or tease. She waits, and when he finally starts to move, fucking her slowly, _decadently_ , she purrs and tightens around him.

“You are a wonder,” Benedict murmurs in her ear, and she laughs softly.

“I know.”

He nuzzles her cheek, into her hair, and that’s when he glances toward the room and sees Granville there. _Watching._ Their gazes lock, and Benedict’s thrusts slow. 

Genevieve growls softly, digs her nails into his arm. He kisses her temple, and without breaking Henry’s gaze, he pulls her upright. His hands slide up her body to cup her breasts. Granville’s brows raise; a smile tugs at his lips. Her back arches when Benedict teases her nipples through her gown, and when he gives them a gentle pinch, she moans prettily and tightens around him. She feels so good that he does it again, and she raises her arms so she can lace her fingers together behind his neck. When she tilts her head to the side, he licks at the pulsebeat hammering just under her skin and nuzzles into her intoxicating citrus and spice scent.

Across the room, Granville sits. One hand rests on his lap, and Benedict’s attention focuses there. He wonders if Granville is touching himself while he watches. There’s a stiffness, a strain, in Granville’s posture that makes Benedict certain he must be. He thrusts harder into Genevieve, drowning in the pleasure of her body and the memory of how Granville looks when he’s fucking into his own hand. When that hand moves, Benedict follows it and watches Granville dip a finger into a glass of wine. The dark liquid clings to his skin, and Granville waits until their gazes lock before he raises the finger to his mouth, slips it inside, and tongues it clean. 

Benedict shudders. That mouth. That _fucking_ mouth has been at the core of his filthiest dreams for days. He slides a hand under Genevieve’s skirts and between her thighs so that he can rub her in time with his increasingly urgent thrusts. Granville pulls his finger partly out of his mouth, then slides it back in. Benedict can see Granville’s cheeks hollow as he sucks, and the flare of lust he feels at that is so incandescent it’s almost painful. It’s just then that Genevieve gasps. Her body arches, and he’s gripped by the most delicious clenching heat he can imagine. Benedict he lets that, lets her, pull him over the edge too. 

Except for ragged breathing, they’re both quiet as they ride out their passion, leaning against each other for support. Genevieve sighs as Benedict nuzzles her neck and gives him a gentle shove when he reaches a spot that tickles. He holds her tight, making her squirm against him, before releasing her. She kisses his forehead, then his eyelids, then his lips.

“You are a man of your word, Benedict.” She leans in to kiss him but gently nips his lip instead. “I find myself quite satisfied.” When he traces her cheekbone and jaw, she tilts her cheek into his palm and kisses it. 

“It has been my pleasure.”

Her hair is a lost cause, but Genevieve does her best to adjust her clothes. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She takes several steps away from him, pauses, then glances back over her shoulder. “With whatever strength you have left.” She winks, then melts back into the room.

Benedict laughs softly. _Sweet, wicked Genevieve._ He closes his eyes, wets his lips, and tells himself he’s taking a moment to catch his breath before rejoining the party. Why else would he be lingering in a dimly lit, quiet hallway? It’s certainly not because he expects someone else to join him, not because he hopes to catch the golden scent of amber and sandalwood, not because he craves a touch he has been waiting days to feel. Which is fortunate, since none of those things occur. He puts his clothing to rights, as much as he’s able, before he turns his attention toward the room. Granville is nowhere to be seen.

####

It’s hours later, after a second turn in the studio, when Benedict finally asks one of the servants for his coat. He waits in the foyer, paces impatiently. He’s annoyed with Granville for avoiding him—for he’s certain that’s what his host was doing—and annoyed with himself for letting that cloud an otherwise pleasant evening. Underneath it all, he can’t escape the feeling he has been a fool, and that leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“Bridgerton.” Benedict starts as the source of his annoyance enters the foyer with the coat he has been waiting for. “I trust you had a good evening.”

Benedict nods. “It was lovely.” Were he less annoyed, he’d be embarrassed by the curtness of his response.

“It certainly seemed to be.” Granville’s lips curve in a sinful smile. “I believe you found it quite stimulating if I’m not mistaken.” He holds up Benedict’s coat for him.

Benedict flushes as he shoves his arms into the sleeves and tugs the coat around himself like warm, woolen armor. He’s thankful for the heavy fabric, thankful for the cover it gives him.

“Well then, I wish you a good evening, Bridgerton, and hope to have the pleasure of your company again soon.” Granville places extra emphasis on “pleasure,” and Benedict nods, because that word, the way it rubs against him, has tightened his throat and his body. “Excellent.” Granville claps him on the shoulder, leans in, and murmurs, “I’d check your pockets before you give your coat to the servants.” With that, he is gone.

Benedict waits until he’s blocks away from the Granville house before he slips his hands into his pockets. He feels folded paper in one, curls his hand loosely around it, and pulls it out. There is no seal, no writing at all on the outside. Even though he is sorely tempted to open and read it, he tucks it away in his waistcoat. Something tells him to wait until he’s somewhere private, and because he’s not a patient man, he quickens his steps toward Grosvenor Square. 

When he gets home, he thanks god Anthony isn’t waiting to press him into sharing a snifter of brandy or Eloise hasn’t planned an ambush that will only end after he’s too tired to keep up the debate she has chosen for the day. His covers are already turned down, and he slides the note under one of the pillows before he prepares for bed. It’s not until he’s naked under the covers that he retrieves the note, opens it, and starts reading.

_In case you were unaware how arousing I found you this evening I thought it important to let you know. You are so tempting. **So very tempting.** While I watched you, I imagined undoing my trousers and seeing to myself where I sat. Instead, I went somewhere more private so I could stretch out on your finely tailored coat and handle matters. I hope you’ll remember that every time you wear it._

_When you come, you look almost astonished. Did you know that? It’s quite endearing._

_If you’ve no plans this coming Thursday, I would be delighted to have you over for a private dinner._

Benedict’s body warms as he reads the letter through once. By the time he finishes it a second time, he is achingly hard. He clutches the letter in one hand and strokes himself roughly, almost desperately, with the other. Bits of the note swirl through him in Granville’s velvety voice: _arousing, tempting, delighted. Private._ Benedict groans as he thrusts into his hand. _Handle matters. Come._ His thrusts get uneven.

_Come._ His hips jerk once, twice, and then he spills on his stomach and chest.


End file.
